The Distance from Here to You
by Vilandra
Summary: Weiss learns that, despite it all, life goes on. Weiss Ficathon entry.


Title: The Distance from Here to You  
  
Author: Vilandra  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Pairing: Sydney/Weiss  
  
Spoilers: Through S3  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, but belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, et al. No infringement intended, no profit made.  
  
Summary: Weiss learns that, despite it all, life goes on. Archival: CM, my LJ. Everywhere else, ask so I can visit.  
  
AN: Thank you to Brix, for hosting this wonderful ficathon. To RJ Anderson, for the story requirements--I certainly hope I was able to do your ideas justice. And, most of all, to the amazing Terra, for the incredible beta work. I couldn't have done it without your help.  
  
'I swear, I need to stop forcing myself to get so much done,' Weiss thought to himself, eagerly stabbing a bit of lettuce with his fork. Perhaps a bit too eagerly. From his desk in the Ops Center, where Weiss was spending a working lunch pouring over briefings and choking down a garden salad, he could see Sydney and Vaughn huddled together over something—documents, a takeout menu, the latest of Mitchell's baby photos, he wasn't sure. He didn't really care.  
  
Never having considered himself a bitter, jealous person, Weiss was a bit surprised at this emotional change of face. Ever since Sydney returned from the Two Year Covenant Mystery Tour, Weiss had been nothing short of insanely supportive—mover, therapist, tequila buddy, neighbor. Friend. Through all this time, he never felt a thing for her. Nothing. He didn't think he had. And if he ever did, he buried it, knowing full well that Sydney had enough on her plate with Vaughn, and Lauren, and the little matter of having no recollection of the past two years.  
  
Another vegetable fell victim to Weiss' fork, this time a tomato coated in balsamic vinegar. 'Damn diet,' he thought dryly. Across the Ops Center, a giggle—apparently Sydney and Vaughn's viewing fare was on the lighter side of Jack Bristow's secret dealings. Despite the state of recent weeks, an outsider would never guess that anything was amiss in the lives of either Sydney or Vaughn. Lauren was presumed dead—nothing had been heard of her since she sustained multiple gunshot wounds and a trip down a nice pit. Nor had anything been heard from Jack Bristow—he made a quick exit once Sydney found the documents, and his official status with the CIA was 'In Hiding'. In spite of all that had happened to the two—one with a missing father, the other a dead wife, and both presumably pretty damn disillusioned—they both seemed content to fill their time with their almost middle-school romance. Weiss thought that perhaps it was the only way either of them could cope.  
  
The proceeding weeks proved to be, at best, insane for Weiss. The CIA assigned him to a full-time task force whose objective was to discover and detail every piece of Jack Bristow's secret files. The deposit box Sydney found was only the beginning—from there the paper trail they were slowly following unwittingly detailed just about every one of Jack Bristow's secrets. They quickly learned that the guy had been up to no good for the past thirty years, and were tasked with the job of finding out just how deep the damage went.  
  
The CIA also assigned Vaughn to the job, but wisely left Sydney off. Their relationship, however, was back in full force—it was just like the old days. Dinner and hockey games, giggling together in random alcoves, spending nearly every hour of every day together. This time, however, Weiss had the fortunate distinction of being their official Third Wheel. Never mind any awkwardness this might impose upon Weiss—this never appeared to cross either of their minds. As the weeks went on, it became routine for Weiss to spend a long day at work, then meet Sydney and Vaughn for dinner, or drinks, or a game—all initiated by Sydney and Vaughn. Or, more specifically, Sydney—she seemed to think it was the greatest thing in the world to spend time with, as she put it, "her two favorite people." As such, Weiss resigned himself to being, as he saw it, Sydney and Vaughn's favorite accessory.  
  
Weiss knew something was amiss the moment he stepped into the Ops Center—the atmosphere was different. Charged. Seeing neither Sydney nor Vaughn at their respective desks, Weiss sat down at his own. A folder lay upon it—Classified. Eyes Only. The same variety as he had been receiving for weeks, each detailing the previous day's findings from the Jack Bristow Files. Not expecting anything different from the usual fare—details of covert missions, secret operations, recruited agents—he flipped the folder open.  
  
From the first page, a vaguely familiar face started up at Weiss—closer inspection of the caption revealed that it was, indeed, William Vaughn. Shit. Weiss gritted his teeth and turned the page.  
  
Sure enough, this intel proved to be just about as depressing as Weiss could expect. Jack's files detailed the extensive involvement of Bill Vaughn in—well, in everything. Rambaldi. Project Christmas. The group that eventually evolved into the Covenant. Weiss knew that this truth, these words before him, would shatter Vaughn. Everything he had ever believed about his dad, the good, honest, loyal man he believed to have as a father, had been shot to hell.  
  
After scouring the Ops Center, Weiss found Vaughn outside, in a courtyard protected from the outside world by the expansive CIA campus. The bench provided a nice view of the brown, dying grass, which Vaughn stared at blankly.  
  
"Hey," Weiss said quietly. He had no idea what to say. Where does one begin? 'Sorry your dad was an asshole bad guy? Want to grab a beer?' Instead, he settled for sharing the view with Vaughn in silence, watching the occasional CIA employee shuffle between buildings, files and coffees clutched tightly in hand.  
  
Weiss stole a glance at Vaughn, and swore he could see his steely green eyes glistening with a hint of a tear. "Mike, I'm so sorry," Weiss said quietly, feeling like an asshole, but having nothing better to say, no comforting words, no profound observation to make the situation right. Vaughn nodded, continuing to stare straight ahead.  
  
Soon thereafter, Weiss' fears confirmed themselves—Vaughn truly could not handle this news about his dad. Certainly, his distress was more than understandable—his father had been his role model, his hero, the man he based his adult life on. Weiss had held out hope that he might be able to take the news as Sydney had the news of her mother—upset, disillusioned, pissed off. But functioning.  
  
Vaughn? Became anything and everything but functioning. Often times, he didn't bother to come to work. When he did show up, he sat alone at his desk, staring blankly at his computer, or documents, or a cup of coffee. Trio Dinner Nights ended promptly, and although Weiss was upset at what was, essentially, the loss of a good friend, he knew Sydney was faring much worse. The few times Weiss saw Vaughn speaking with Sydney at work, he could tell it wasn't pleasant—it usually ended with Vaughn snapping at Sydney, she turning away in anger. If Lauren's death took them two steps forward, this was five steps backward—and in Weiss' estimation, the longer time went on, the more they seemed to become like strangers.  
  
Weiss could hear the rain pounding against his roof, the pavement, the windows, when the doorbell rang. Lifting himself off of the couch, a basketball game playing on the television, the volume muted, he opened the door to find Sydney. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over her head. Soaking wet.  
  
Without a word, he pulled open the door, and Sydney stepped inside. Shutting the door against the blowing rain, Sydney pulled off the hood, her soaked hair falling into her face.  
  
"How have you been, Syd?" Weiss asked, because, really, he had no idea—he felt like he had barely spoken with Sydney the past few weeks. With all that had happened with Vaughn, it had seemed easier to avoid both of them. Cowardly? Yes. But Weiss didn't feel like he could face Sydney, and the feelings for her he refused to acknowledge, what with Vaughn on the brink of losing it completely. So, avoidance? Seemed like a fabulous choice to him.  
  
Sydney shook her head, a strand of wet hair hitting her in the eye. "You know. Not well." She lowered her face to the floor, her eyes peering up at Weiss. "Weiss...I, I'm sorry." Her eyes darted away from his, instead choosing to focus on a spot about two feet to Weiss' left.  
  
Weiss didn't know what to say. On the one hand, she didn't owe him an apology, she didn't owe him anything. On the other hand, shit, she owed him so much more than that. After all he had done for her, to be tossed away, forgotten—he didn't want to go down that path of thought. Grudges weren't his style.  
  
"Sydney, look at me," he said, and she did, her steady gaze meeting Weiss', which he feared was not nearly as confident. "It's okay. Truly."  
  
Sydney nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. Despite the situation, all Weiss could think was 'Shit. She's going to cry. What do I do with that?' But she stepped toward him, and that thought was quickly ushered away by 'Hug. Hug. Hug her!'  
  
Weiss enveloped Sydney in his arms, and she buried her against her chest, sighing. After a moment, he let her go slightly, and looked down at her face. "You okay?"  
  
As if she had been snapped, her eyes changed—no longer clouded with sadness, she looked sharp, determined. Before Weiss knew what was about to happen, she leaned in and kissed him. Sydney's lips pressed against his, and despite the fact that it felt so right, so—yes—no, he couldn't. He pushed her away, not daring to look at her as he did so. He couldn't.  
  
"Syd—I'm sorry." Her eyes purposefully avoided his, and she immediately stepped back to the doorway. Without a word, she pulled the door open, stepped into what was now a complete downpour, and shut the door purposefully behind her.  
  
Weiss stared at the door for a minute after she left, no idea what to think. Blank. He turned back to the silent basketball game, and sat back down numbly on the couch.  
  
"Was I supposed to expect that?" he asked the room.  
  
If work had been awkward before, it was now downright uncomfortable. Whereas Sydney, in passing, would have given Weiss a smile and a small hello, she now walked on as if Weiss didn't exist. Vaughn continued to slip away, but it had nothing to do with Sydney—Weiss doubted that either of them had spoken since the incident, let alone shared an earth-shattering reconciliation that would involve divulgence of that story.  
  
Come to think of it, Weiss wasn't even sure how Vaughn had managed to keep his job. Any time he saw him around the office, he was either sitting stoically at his desk, not even pretending to work, or on his way into a meeting, presumably with Barnett. Not really having any other choice, Weiss threw himself into his work—if Jack Bristow were going to ruin his life, his friends, he would work doubly hard to see that the son of a bitch was brought down eventually.  
  
Another Friday night alone, and Weiss found himself heading down the street to the sports bar he liked—the one he used to frequent with Vaughn. The restaurant section, with booths and tables, was nearly filled, but the bar was fairly empty. Weiss sat himself upon a barstool, next to a guy he vaguely recognized—must be a regular. Ordered himself a beer and a basket of fries, and stared idly at the game blaring on the nearest television. Hockey.  
  
As he took a pull from his beer, a female voice to his right inquired "Is this seat taken?" He looked over. Sydney. A timid smile on her face.  
  
"Not at all," Weiss said, pulling the stool out for her. She sat, and he retrieved a fry from his basket. Dipped it in ketchup. Looked over at Sydney, who was eyeing him with a familiar grin.  
  
"Remember how it used to be?" she said, a mischievous smile playing across her lips.  
  
"You mean tequila nights?" Another sip of beer. "The details are a bit fuzzy."  
  
Sydney chuckled. "Exactly." Her grin faded as she surveyed Weiss, who was quite obviously doing his best to focus his eyes everywhere but on her. "Weiss, I'm sorry." Her fingers fumbled with a nearby coaster, flipping it back, forth, as she struggled for words. "What happened...at your house...I didn't mean to."  
  
"You mean, you didn't mean to kiss me? I know I'm not the world's smallest target, but damn, that's some accidental aim." He looked straight at Sydney, who blushed ever-so-slightly, but held his gaze.  
  
"Eric." She was suddenly serious, the coaster now immobile between her fingers. "I meant that I didn't intend the timing. That's all."  
  
"So the action was intentional?" Weiss raised an eyebrow at her.  
  
"Perhaps." She reached across him, retrieved his beer, and took a sip. "Perhaps I was tired of beating around the obvious."  
  
"Oh, the obvious, eh?" Weiss shot back. "Obvious to who, everyone but me?"  
  
Sydney grinned—a true, genuine smile. "It's 'to whom,' and yes."  
  
Weiss laughed, returning her grin. "As long as we're all on the same page now." He reached over and took her hand, the basket of fries on the bar long-forgotten.  
  
Their relationship grew slowly over the proceeding months—neither was interested in hurrying anything. In fact, they were both quite content just to have each other—no frills, just something in their lives that was tangible, unconditional.  
  
After a couple of months, Vaughn left the CIA, this time for good. By the time that happened, he had lost touch with just about everybody, including Sydney and Weiss. One day, he was just gone. The last Weiss heard, he was living in Canada—Montreal.  
  
And so, it ended up as just Sydney and Weiss. They spent their time at the same places they had with Vaughn—it seemed false somehow, forced, to break routine simply for the sake of breaking routine. Over time, it stopped feeling incomplete, not quite full. It just became the way it was.  
  
"Eric, can you get the door? I don't trust you to finish the pasta right." Sydney turned from the stove, the dish she was currently preparing simmering lightly on the burner. Weiss playfully narrowed his eyes at her, abandoned the half-sliced bread, and strode over to the entryway. Not bothering to look through the peephole, he opened the door.  
  
To find Jack Bristow on the stoop.  
  
He looked the same as always—the bags under his eyes a bit more pronounced, perhaps, but the same Jack Bristow. Crisp black suit, perfectly combed hair, intimidating-as-all-hell stare.  
  
"Mr. Weiss," he said, sarcastically jovial as ever. "I can't say that I was expecting you to be opening Sydney's door. Taking over duties for Mr. Vaughn, perhaps?"  
  
Stunned as Weiss was, he was determined not to let Jack get any sort of rise or reaction out of him. "Jack Bristow," he said softly. "Never mind the events of the past few months, I suppose. You have the damn nerve to show up here, and comment on the company that Sydney's keeping?"  
  
"It's of more concern to me than it should be to you, Mr. Weiss," he said, still refusing to break character. "Tell me, might I speak with Sydney?"  
  
"Bullshit," Weiss said, still keeping his voice down. He didn't want Sydney to hear his conversation, to know that Jack was here. "I knew you had balls, Jack, but never enough for this."  
  
"Weiss, what's going on?" Sydney's voice came from around the corner. A moment later, she came into view, catching sight of Jack on the doorstep.  
  
"You," she said slowly, her voice venomous, dripping with contempt. "You have the audacity to show up here? Crawl out of whatever hole you've been hiding in? For what? To offer some sort of explanation, I suppose?"  
  
"Sydney, I assure you that I can explain my actions—and those files," he started, but Sydney cut him off.  
  
"Bullshit you can." Her eyes narrowed, as she surveyed the man on her stoop, her father. "I can barely look at you, barely stand the thought that you are breathing the same air as me. You expect me to stand in your presence long enough to hear some sort of half-baked excuse?"  
  
"Sydney—" but again she cut him off.  
  
"There is no excuse. No explanation. I've seen it all for myself, and I am certain that there is nothing you can ever say, or do, or feel, that will vindicate you. You know what you are to me?" Her eyes flashed. "Nothing. You are nothing."  
  
Weiss could swear he saw Jack flinch, but otherwise showed no emotion, no reaction, nothing. "If that's the way you want it, Sydney, I can't change your mind."  
  
"You're absolutely right. Goodbye." Sydney slammed the door in Jack's face with impressive restraint, than stalked back down the hall. Out the peephole, Weiss watched Jack linger for barely a moment, then turn, walk back to whatever nondescript black sedan he came in.  
  
Back in the kitchen, Sydney poked angrily at the obviously-burned pasta, her face red, jaw set. Weiss wrapped his arms around her from behind, gently removing the wooden spoon she held. "Sydney," he whispered, holding her tightly. "I'm here." His lips brushed gently the top of her head, her hands clutched tightly in his. "It's okay. I'm here."  
  
Although he couldn't see her face, he knew she was crying. A small sob escaped her lips, and she pressed tightly against Weiss' comforting grip as the tears came. He couldn't help but blink back a few of his own.  
  
July 4, 2004 


End file.
